


The Question

by fadewords



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Tony Stark, F/M, dr who references (i couldn't help myself), i don't know how this fic happened i'm sorry, i was playing around with my imagination and then everything got intense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:30:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark is a fucking sex god, and proud of it. But there's something indefinably different about his approach to sex--there always has been, he's just never noticed it before--and now that he has, he can't quite put his finger on it.</p><p>(Or: An asexual Tony Stark goes through life without knowledge of asexuality, and does just fine--until he actually learns about asexuality. Then shit hits the fan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I unrealistically headcanon certain characters as ace, and then feel the need to justify my unrealistic headcanon, and then fic happens. This is one of those times. Enjoy.

Anthony Stark is five, and cooties are not real. They can’t be, because gender-specific viruses do not exist. They’re just pretend, just a game, like Rocketship and House—only this one has more running and shouting. Anthony likes running and shouting, so this is his favorite game.

Anthony is seven, and cooties are a baby’s game. There’s a new one now—where you chase girls instead of running from them. If you’re really good at it, you make them cry. Anthony is very good. He pulls every pigtail he sees.

Anthony is eight, and he is mean to Susie Parks. That’s fine, though—it just means he likes her. Everyone knows you’re supposed to be mean to the girl you like. It’s not a game this time, it’s just a Rule, a Thing You Do—so he does it. It gets him in trouble, though. His teacher asks him does he like Susie, is that why he’s being so awful to her? And he nods yes, because of course he likes her. She’s the smartest in the class, except for him, and she shared a cupcake with him once. She’s _awesome_.

Anthony is eleven, and his friends ask him who he likes. He answers Susie Parks (because she’s still smartest in the class and he still hasn’t forgotten that cupcake). They nod and smile, and talk about Caroline and Josie and Sarah and Margaret.

Tony is thirteen, and his friends want to know who he has a crush on. He says no one, but they don’t believe him. Who do you want to go out with, they ask, who do you want to kiss, who do you want to bang—he keeps telling them no one, but that only makes them mad. Finally they ask who he thinks is cute, and then everything clicks. He grins a wide grin and tells them Rosetta. Rosetta is very cute—her eyes are spaced perfectly apart and her nose is perfectly centered and her cheeks are nicely rounded and she has dimples. He’s a sucker for dimples.

Tony is fourteen, and his dad talks to him about sex. He listens attentively, but learns nothing new. (He worked out the mechanics at seven.) When his dad is finished, he thanks him and leaves. He has tinkering to do.

Tony is fifteen, and he has his first girlfriend. He likes her, he does, but all she wants to do is kiss. And while that’s nice--very nice--his lips are getting sore. He breaks up with her, gets another girlfriend (because that’s the new rule, that’s what you do)—and she’s different. She doesn’t want to kiss at all (which is odd, but he can live with it), but she _does_ want to know, rather often, whether or not he likes the way she looks. He tells her yes—because he does, of course, why else would he go out with her?—but it doesn’t seem to be enough. She keeps asking—and asking, and asking, and asking. He tries the words “pretty,” “hot,” “beautiful,” “cute,” “smoking,” “stunning,” “breathtaking,” “gorgeous,” and “sizzling”—but none of them work.

One day, after he tries _yet another heartfelt adjective_ , she snaps, “Then why won’t you kiss me?”

He blinks, taken aback. “Because you said you didn’t want me to.”

“Three weeks ago, Tony!”

“Well, you never said—”

“I shouldn’t have _had_ to tell you! If you wanted to kiss me, you should have just _done_ it!”

“But—”

“Oh, don’t give me any of that chivalry crap! That’s not you and you know it.”

He does know it—but that's not what he'd been planning to say. He’d been planning to say _but I didn’t want to kiss you_. At least, not actively. He hadn’t been averse to it—but she’d seemed to be, and—and—

Well. There’s nothing for it now. He pulls her close and kisses her soundly. He’s a bit sloppy--out-of-practice--but she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles when they’re through, and he smiles back, all teeth, glad he’s finally gotten something right.

…Or maybe not. She breaks up with him a week later. It doesn’t bother him much, though—he just gets a new girl. And another after that, and another, and so on, for years.

Tony is seventeen, and he has a reputation. Rumors spread like wildfire—and then suddenly they aren’t rumors. Everyone _knows_ he’s fucked every girl on campus, and thirty others besides. Tony grins whenever someone alludes to it—the wide one with all the teeth and the suggestive eyebrows—but says nothing.

Tony is nineteen, and he has sex for the first time. Alex clearly knows what she’s doing, and he tries like hell to seem like he does, too. He thinks he manages it—he’s very perceptive, notices immediately what works and what doesn’t, and adjusts accordingly. He makes sure to blame any clumsiness on the alcohol. He’s pretty sure she falls for it. The next morning, he can’t quite remember how it felt, but he assures himself that it was awesome, because sex is awesome, and decides he should do it again at the next available opportunity.

So he does.

Tony is twenty, and he sleeps with everyone, and everyone knows it. He’s not had sex sober yet, but he figures that doesn’t matter. Sex is sex.

Tony is twenty-one, and he doesn’t sleep with anyone for half a year because he has to appear respectable. Once his control of the company is set in stone, he slides back into his old habits.

Tony is twenty-two, and he pulls away from Mandy—Melissa?—with plungerish sound and searches for a napkin to write down the equation he’s just worked out. He apologizes once, because she’s clearly annoyed, then leans back in and all’s forgotten. He grabs a few more napkins a few minutes later, and uncaps a pen one-handed—the other hand is tangled in her hair—and begins jotting down more notes with his right hand as his left slides down to the small of her back. It takes a few minutes for her to realize that he’s only got one hand on her, and a few seconds to realize why. She gets angry—he tries to explain, but she storms off. He wonders vaguely how she doesn’t snap her achilles tendon stomping like that in those heels—then figures it out and stops caring. He turns to another woman, starts all over.

Tony is twenty-three, and he’s having sex with some guy called James, and all he can think about is his new project. There’s something wrong with it, if only he can just—oh, _that_ , yes, there—and then he knows what to do to fix it and all he wants is to be done so he can get back to the lab. He’s rougher than he should be, but it doesn’t matter much because James doesn’t seem to mind. He is, however, disappointed when Tony pulls out without finishing, plants a sloppy kiss on his forehead, and leaves without a word.

For a few minutes he wants to touch himself, to get it over with so he can _focus_ —but the more he thinks about the project the less he cares, and by the time he makes it to his car his erection’s faded. He’s fairly drunk, he knows, and driving isn’t smart, but he knows the right roads to take—the emptier ones, the less-patrolled ones, and he takes those, and he makes it to the lab without incident and works on the project all night. It’s done by dawn, and he’s happier than he’s been in months.

Tony doesn’t know how old he is. Well no, he does—but it doesn’t really matter to him anymore. He’s stopped caring. He’s stopped caring about a lot of things, since— _since_. Sex, for one. He doesn’t bother with it anymore. Kissing, yes, chatting up women, yes—but no more than that. It’s too time-consuming. No one seems to notice, though, and that’s fine, that’s good, he doesn’t want them to. He wants them to think he’s the same as ever, still playing the game, still doing the things he’s supposed to be doing, the things everyone does because they’re _normal_.

He works instead. Invents. Makes repairs. Saves the world.

A month goes by, more—maybe a year? Maybe more. He doesn’t know. He _does_ know he’s dying—so he starts sleeping with women again, flirting more and more—overcompensating, he knows, but it works. No one suspects a thing.

And then he’s fine and he drops it again. Except. Except—Pepper. There’s still Pepper. He kisses her on a regular basis, tells her over and over and over that she’s hot, she’s stunning, she’s sexy, she’s smoking—tells her so much that she gets tired of it, tells him to stop, and he’s relieved, because he’s been tired of it for months. She doesn’t seem to want to go any further, so he doesn’t push. After a while, he notices that she’s noticed his lack of advances—but she just puts it down to him trying to be “better”, whatever that means (he knows what it means, but damned if he's going to admit that he's turning over a new leaf). She thinks it's his way of letting her know that she's different, that she's special, that he _respects_ her in a way he's never respected any other woman before.

She's not wrong, so he doesn't correct her.

She's— _not_ wrong. Is she?

Of course she isn't. (Is? Isn't.)

(Is?)

The question bothers him. He puts it out of mind, but it  _keeps_ bothering him—wakes him up in the middle of the night sometimes and leaves him staring at the ceiling for several long minutes—and once for three hours.

At the end of the three-hour-long staring contest with the ceiling, he's positive that he  _does_ respect Pepper _—_ and decides that maybe that's the problem. Somehow.

It doesn't make any sense and he knows it, but the conclusion allows him to sleep like a baby for the rest of the night.

A few nights after that, he's very slightly drunk, and more than slightly horny—and Pepper's there. She's not drunk at all, but she's his equal on the other count, so they-- 

And it's...nice. He's oddly  _aware_ of everything, though, of all the minute details and sensations and they're—distracting, to say the least. He marks the experience  _interesting_ , and files it away for future reference.

He smiles a bit more—there was nothing to be worried about after all—and he's had sex with  _Pepper_ , and everything's going pretty good, and—

And then New York happens and everything's a mess. He's a mess. He knows it. He doesn't want to think about it—doesn't want to think about anything at all  _ever_ anymore—just wants to build and build and build and build and build— _needs_ to build, needs to create and fix and  _do things_ with himself—with his hands. He has to keep his hands busy. Has to.

So he does.

He builds a new suit—and another, and another, and another. He loses count. Counts them all— _one two three four five—in the twenties now, the thirties, the forties—_ loses count again and counts again.

—And then everything blows up and the inside of his head is unreliable and his hands are unreliable and  _everything is unreliable_ and he can't can't can't—compute.

Can't compute nothing computes why  _won't any of it compute—_ and the question comes back.

The danger dies down and everything deflates and the world becomes reliable again—but the inside of his head still doesn't, and the question  _hangs around_ for days weeks almost months—wordless, ominous—no,  _disconcerting_ .

It's no longer about respecting Pepper—he thinks maybe it never was. It's—something else, it must be, because he's had sex with her and still thinks she's kickass and intelligent and—and that was what he'd been worried about, wasn't it? That he wouldn't feel the same about her after he had sex with her? That he'd look down on her, or—or worse, that he'd feel more strongly about her, or—that things would  _change_ somehow—but they haven't.

Nothing has.

He isn't sure why he expected change in the  _first_ place. None of his other relationships changed after—

He laughs to himself.  _What_ other relationships? He hasn't had any others—at least, not any like  _this_ . Not any that have  _mattered_ .

Is that the problem? That Pepper  _matters_ ?

...No, that's stupid. Isn't it?

A little voice in the back of his head whispers  _commitment issues_ . He stabs it with a mental fork and goes back to tinkering—or sleeping, or talking, or whatever it is he happens to be doing when _the question_ rears its godforsaken metaphorical head.

He decides, one night, with Pepper half-curled beside him, that he needs to put  _words_ to the question—needs to find out what it is that bothers him about their relationship.

It isn't Pepper. It isn't him. (At least, he doesn't  _think_ it's him.) It isn't the lack of overt romance (that suits both of them just fine). It  _definitely_ isn't the sex _—_ that's been good.

But. He doesn't—there's something he ought to—something's missing.

That's it. Something's missing. Something that—what?

It's—sex? No, he likes—it's been—he—doesn't mind—

Doesn't mind? Of course he doesn't mind! It  _feels—_

But—

Why—

There's—

_He_ instigates—

_She_ instigates—

They _both—_

It doesn't—

_Why_ ?

He closes his eyes. Thinks. Wonders why he feels—lacking.

Because  _that's_ it, isn't it? There's nothing missing from their relationship—by and large it's as perfect as it's ever going to get—there's something missing from  _him_ .

He's got a screw loose somewhere—a wire crossed that shouldn't be—or rather, a wire  _not_ crossed that  _should_ be. Yes. That was it. It was just—New York, wasn't it? Still affecting him, after all this time? ( _Forever_ , the little voice in his head whispers. He stabs it with a trident (=staff=Loki=portal=no), then a hammer (=Thor=Loki=portal=no), then smothers it with a pillow because there aren't any negative associations with  _pillows_ , are there?

He feels his brain scramble to find one and carefully climbs out of bed. Suit. He needs a new suit. No—he needs an old suit made better. No more making suit after suit after suit—just repair the old one.

Repair. He touches his chest unconsciously—then realizes what he's done and clenches and unclenches his fists and drums his fingers on his leg.

He abandons the idea of working on the suit—he needs something nearer—and brighter. It's too dark down there, even with all the lights on. Sometimes that's a good thing—the dark is paradoxically soothing—but not tonight, he thinks. No, not tonight.

Tonight he needs something bright. Like a, like a—he casts his eyes about as he walks, then stops and smiles. Like a laptop screen, yes.

He smiles a tiny bit wider when he realizes that he can kill two birds with one stone this way—he can occupy his hands and have bright light  _and_ try to figure out what's wrong with his brainpan all at once—wait, that's three birds.

Whatever. It's not important. He turns on the lights in the living room and sits with the laptop in front of him. He turns it on, waits for it to power up.

He goes through several Wikipedia pages and finds nothing. It doesn't surprise him. He still doesn't know what he's looking for.

He lets his mind wander—it goes back to the idea of sex changing things in a relationship—it's supposed to, after all, that's the rule—but it never has for him. Is it simply less important to him?

Hum. Probably. He's gone ages without it before.

But then, he'd taken care of things solo, so it's not as though...

He starts to type in  _low libido_ , then erases it because it's wrong. He types  _lack of interest in sex_ instead (which is also wrong, but less so), and hits enter.

He gets a lot of medical results, which seems promising, if somewhat worrying—but they all talk about symptoms he hasn't got, and the lack of interest resulting from emotional upheaval, and that's—well.

He supposes he can't deny there's been emotional whackadoo for the past few—months? Years? He's still not quite sure.

—But that  _can't_ be it, because he's  _never_ been particularly—hum. Has there  _always_ been a problem? That—no, of course not. But—

He frowns, almost closes the laptop—but his fingers are still trembling so he doesn't.

He types in penguins, cherry soda, Iron Man, microchip technology, antigravity theories—anything and everything to keep his mind and fingers occupied.

He winds up at space travel, sci-fi shows, keeps clicking around—somehow comes across a discussion of alien sexuality—or rather lack thereof: asexuality.

He rolls his eyes at the word, yawns, closes the laptop, and falls asleep before he has time to be properly scornful.

Time passes. The question remains.

Someone—Clint? Yes, Clint—comments that Pepper has Tony on a tight leash—he never even  _looks_ at other women anymore.

Tony raises an eyebrow and cracks a joke, and Clint laughs and so does he—but the comment stays with him for the rest of the week.

He  _hasn't_ been looking at other women. He's not realized—hasn't thought it significant. There's no reason to look at other women anymore, because he has Pepper.

Oh. Oh, of course. They're used to unattached Tony, and unattached Tony had always looked—had always made a  _point_ to look, regardless of whether or not there was a woman on his arm.

It's nice not having to look, he reflects. Very nice. Much less exhausting, much more liberating. He tells Pepper that—thanks her for it—and she gives him a funny look.

He supposes it  _is_ an odd thing to thank her for, and it's probably also very rude, but he doesn't bother apologizing. She'll forget in a few hours.

—But she doesn't. She brings it up a bit later, joking, teasing—but also a bit hurt. He reassures her (though he's not entirely sure why she's upset), and mentions offhandedly that he's never really liked having to  _look_ at women anyway—it always took up so much time and energy—but that only makes things worse, and now Pepper wants to know if he likes looking at  _her_ , if  _that_ takes up too much time and energy—and even as he reassures her that  _of course_ he does, and of  _course_ it doesn't, because she's sexy as  _fuck_ , he realizes that he's not being  _entirely_ truthful, somehow.

Thankfully,  _she_ doesn't realize. She's entirely mollified, and the matter's shoved away.

That night, Tony thinks. The question bounces round and round and round his head, and it's finally got words _—do I have to make myself_ look _at Pepper?_

And the answer, the answer—is yes. But—but he doesn't  _mind_ so much with Pepper. It's—it's all—it's different. Somehow.

He  _loves_ Pepper. He's never loved anyone else.

He loves her, but he still has to make himself  _look_ at her. Isn't that wrong? And—the sight of her has never gotten him hard. He's never had a sex dream about her. He's—

Hang on. He's never gotten hard at the sight of anybody. He's never had a sex dream about anybody. This—isn't specific to Pepper. This is a  _general thing_ . He's not a bad—whatever he is to her (they've not been keen on labels). He's a bad—something— _in general_ . That's—good news, isn't it?

Only. Only it means—what does it mean? He's—not attracted to her? But—she's very pretty—beautiful, in fact—and that's—that's attraction, isn't it? Finding someone pretty? Or is there more?

He consults the internet—and of course there's more. You have to want to have sex with them—fantasize about them, and so on.

Okay. That makes sense. (The fantasizing sounds very pre-Iron Man Tony, but it's not something he can remember doing. Ever. And  _certainly_ not with Pepper in mind. --But that's only because there's been no need to fantasize. They've  _actually had_ sex. Repeatedly. So why...?)

Focus, Tony. Sexual attraction. Your apparent lack thereof.

Google it.

He does, and the weird word pops back up—asexuality. He scowls at it—how is it even a real thing, they'd been using it to discuss fiction—but researches it. And researches it. And researches it some more.

And finally slams the laptop in frustration because the word makes  _a lot of sense_ but it's _weird_ and can't  _possibly_ fit him because he's  _Tony Stark_ , goddammit,  _Iron Man_ , fucking  _sex god_ , the word  _playboy_ is in there among “genius billionaire playboy philanthropist”, he can't be fucking  _asexual_ , he fucking  _loves sex_ , it's—it's ridiculous.

He reopens the laptop and deletes the internet history three times in three different ways, then closes it again and goes back to bed.

He falls asleep fuming.

Days pass. The word “asexual” follows him around; it's replaced the stupid  _question_ , which appears to have finally gone off somewhere and died. ( _Probably because you found the answer_ , his subconscious whispers—he ignores it. Forcefully.)

He starts looking at other people again when Pepper's not around. (He feels guilty, but also less like he's going to fly apart, because hey, this is  _familiar, see, I used to do this all the time, who was I kidding_ .) He imagines them naked—something which, try as he might, he can't remember ever doing before. He recalls admiring the shape and arrangement of breasts, recalls tracing hips with his eyes, mentally measuring every possible appendage, looking at the curves of asses, and faces—lots and lots of faces, most of them very pretty.

( _Aesthetic attraction_ , the voice whispers.)

He recalls wanting to trace the lines of faces and breasts and hips.

( _Sensual attraction_ .)

He recalls wanting to kiss and hold and speak with several people.

( _Romantic attraction_ .)

He tries to recall wanting to have sex with them. He recalls being horny in their presence—he recalls several websites telling him that those two things are not the same. Correlation does not imply causation.

Pepper catches him looking. She does not yell. She is too sensible to yell. She asks why. He can't explain. He sleeps on the couch that night—doesn't sleep. Researches more. Hates that the word fits. Finds the word “gray-asexual” and hates that it doesn't quite fit, because he's more okay with it than the first one.

He tries it on anyway. It's...not bad. Wobbly. Still doesn't fit with how the public sees him—with how he sees  _himself—_ with how  _Pepper_ sees him—and that's— _only use labels to make yourself feel more comfortable_ .

But he  _doesn't_ feel comfortable with the label. The other one's better--asexual. That's what he is. It goes against a lifetime of conditioning, against every reputation he has  _anywhere_ , but it—works.

He's an asexual with a strong sex drive and a certain fondness for flirting and innuendo.

He's not a  _normal_ asexual, he tells himself—and that's how he becomes okay with the idea. He's not a  _normal_ one, he doesn't quite fit in with them, he's  _different_ , he—

—isn't actually different at all, he learns. Asexuality's a spectrum, and there are plenty of people on his bit of it. He's not  _special_ .

He scowls at that. He'd liked being special.

He scowls at himself. Pathetic.

He scowls in the mirror when he thinks about telling Pepper, months later.

But what's the point? He's comfortable in his own skin, understands himself about forty times better—that's all that matters, right?

...No. Honesty. Honesty's important to her. He's got to—got to be honest. Yes. Got to tell her.

But—how?

She's going to take it wrong, he knows. She's going to—she—

—Doesn't take it wrong at all. She— _already knows_ ?

She laughs at the incredulous look on his face, tells him he forgot to clear his internet history.

But he hasn't—he _knows_ he hasn't, because he's been clearing it obsessively for _months_ , and he tells her so.

She rolls her eyes—tells him about some Wikipedia article he'd left open. He's confused at first—then his eyes widen.

The aliens—the page he'd first discovered the word on—but that had been—had she known all the time?

She shakes her head and places her hands on his, leaning forward. She tells him no—tells him that she'd scanned the page, then closed it—but had remembered the word later, when he'd told her that he'd always found it tiring to _look_ at women, and had made the connection, and done her own research.

She hesitates, pulls her hands back, folds them in her lap. She looks like she wants to bite her lips, but won't allow herself to. He wants to smile—her self-control is—has always been—extremely endearing—but frowns instead, and asks her what's wrong.

She tells him nothing, nothing. He raises an eyebrow. She teeters on the edge of speech, then blurts something he never expected to hear.

She's demisexual.

He blinks, wonders whether he ought to sit back or forward—settles for neither. At a loss for words, he says okay—then kicks himself, because _really_ , of all the things he could have said--

But she laughs softly, and kisses him.

He returns the gesture a tad more enthusiastically than he probably should have, but she doesn't seem to mind—much.

She pulls away, looks down at her hands, tells him that she hadn't known until she'd done research for him—assures him that she would have told him, really, she just—hadn't thought it terribly relevant, because the emotional connection was already there, and--

He silences her with a kiss—then pulls away, hoping she isn't mad.

She isn't. But she _is_ suddenly businesslike.

She asks him if there's anything he wants her to do differently. He's—shocked at first, then shakes his head.

She asks if he's sure—they can have sex less often, it won't bother her—he's horrified.

She laughs at him—he's affronted at first, then laughs, too.

Then, hesitantly, he asks her if there's anything _she'd_ like to do differently. She shakes her head, tells him what they have is just fine—nothing has to change.

Tony relaxes.

Nothing changes.

(Well...no. Not exactly. They _do_ end up having sex a bit less, as Tony becomes more comfortable admitting when he's not really in the mood [instead of just waiting for physical contact to arouse him], and Tony stops _looking_ at Pepper altogether [instead of leering whenever he feels it's appropriate, and sometimes when he knows it isn't]--but other than _that_ , nothing changes. Nothing at all.)

 


End file.
